


Among the Suds: A Love Story with Laundry Interruptions

by CommaSplice



Series: Kingspyre Apartments [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Curtain Fic, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How wet luggage, overconfidence, a clever business idea, and incompetence brought two lonely people together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among the Suds: A Love Story with Laundry Interruptions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyoftarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyoftarth/gifts), [Vana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/gifts).



> From the prompt: [“that is one hell of a mess"](http://grammarsaveslives.tumblr.com/post/89276309852/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-line-of-dialogue-and-ill-write) sent to me by [Vana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana). 
> 
> Usual disclaimers...

* * *

“Good evening, welcome to Sip and Spin. Tonight we have an amazing Quarthian dark roast with some really great mellow notes and there are fresh-baked cinnamon—” Big Walder stopped short. For the first time he really looked at the customer, whose pale grey eyes were boring into his. The man was old, at least forty-five, and he did not seem like the type to care about fresh-baked anything.

“I was under the impression this was a Laundromat, not a coffee shop.”

Big Walder grinned uneasily. This man did not fit their target demographic at all.

And then Walda was there, elbowing herself into the conversation. “We are a Laundromat, but we also have a café attached.” 

Big Walder was torn between relief and annoyance. Relief because now _she_ could handle this guy and annoyance because she was always there telling him what to do. His cousin had definite ideas on how she wanted the business run. She was very cheery most of the time, but he’d learned that it was a mistake to cross her. 

The customer fixed his gaze upon Walda now. Big Walder decided he was glad not to be the object of attention. 

“Do you want us to do your laundry for you or are you interested in the coin-operated machines?”

“How soon can I have these back if you do it?”

Walda looked at the sheet with the orders. “Tomorrow evening would be the earliest.”

The customer compressed his lips in a thin line. “Fine, I’ll wash them myself.”

Walda nodded and started to lead him away.

“I didn’t finish telling him about the free Wi-Fi or the carefully-chosen—” He was supposed to give the same speech to every customer; Walda had nagged at him enough until he memorized the whole thing.

Walda cut him off. “This gentleman just wants to do his wash, Walder. If he has questions, he’ll ask us.”

“Yes,” the man said in a clipped voice. He barely spared Big Walder a glance. 

She showed him where everything was.

He smiled faintly and departed in the direction she’d indicated.

Big Walder sputtered. “You didn’t tell him about ‘the authentic but still fully-functional mid-century appliances’ like you make me do every time.” 

Walda shook her head at him. She told him to wipe down the tables while she tidied up the counter. 

“I don’t understand why—”

She whirled around so fast that the fabric of her pink-flowered sundress twirled with her. “Just leave the gentleman alone. The poor man just wants to do his laundry.”

Big Walder muttered something about the poor man looking meaner than dirt.

“I think he’s probably just lonely,” Walda said slowly.

* * *

It had been decades since Roose had been to a Laundromat. He dimly recalled using one during his university years, but after graduation, his first wife and then Bethany had attended to all of that. A year into his divorce, and it was just one more chore on a very long list that he found he did with less than maximum efficiency. For all he’d criticized her, it was clear Bethany had known what she was doing. She certainly was better than he was at getting out bloodstains.

The suits he’d dropped off at a dry cleaner. They would have done the shirts too, but he needed some clean clothes immediately. Sip and Spin was the establishment the desk clerk had recommended. Now that he was inside it, Roose regretted tipping the boy. Someone had decided to make laundry a social experience. Aside from rows of machines in vibrant turquoise—a color that graced the appliances of his mother’s kitchen growing up (she had loathed it as he recalled)—there were several seating areas in relentless conversational groupings. Floor lamps and other “retro” objects of dubious appeal were peppered throughout. The effect was what his ex-wife, Bethany, had once told him was called “mid-century modern.”

At least the manager seemed to have some sense about her. Roose could not say as much for the half-wit behind the counter.

He moved away, got his change, and found an open washer. He was here on business for a solid two weeks and the rain on the tarmac had done a thorough job in rendering almost all of his clothes sopping wet and smelling faintly of mildew. Bethany would have done two loads. She’d complained often enough about how many she had to do. He had never understood why she didn’t just put more clothes in the washer. Roose preferred to be efficient whenever possible. Besides, there did not appear to be that many available machines and the sooner he was out of this place the better. 

After adding in his soap, laundry, and fabric softener in the correct order as was designated on the back of the lid, he surveyed his seating options. He ignored the café area and focused his attention on the Laundromat proper. Most of the lounge chairs were occupied by people engaged in far too much conversation, but there in the corner were three hard-backed chairs. 

Roose opened a newspaper and read. More than once he was aware of the manager walking through the establishment in her pink-and-white sundress. Most would call the girl fat, but as he glanced at her now and then, he determined that her legs were good and that the dress showed her curvy figure to advantage. It was a summery frock—not that he ever paid that much attention to fashion—but the flowers were familiar.

Peonies, he suddenly remembered they were called. There had been bushes of them on the side of the first house he and Bethany had owned. He had thought them pretty enough, but Bethany had said they attracted ants and he’d ripped them out at her request. 

The girl seemed to keep a close eye on her establishment. Every so often she called over the lumbering idiot she called Walder to attend to something she found wanting. 

He read in peace. Occasionally other people tried to sit down, but a simple glare was usually sufficient to deter them. Finally a glance at his watch told him it was time to switch to the dryer. He rose, moved over to the machine, his eyes registering the plump girl folding clothes efficiently at a nearby table. He lifted the lid of the washer and pulled out a solid mass of sodden laundry. He frowned. Soap bubbles were clinging in clusters to each clump of clothing. Roose could feel the shreds of patience holding his temper in check disintegrating. He whipped his head around and fixed his gaze on the attendant, who ambled over.

“That is one hell of a mess,” the boy said slowly. “You over packed it. Rookie mistake.”

Roose was contemplating murder when he felt the plump girl in the pink sundress at his elbow. 

“Let me see.”

Roose was too startled not to comply.

“Why didn’t you just use a larger machine?” 

He would have taken umbrage, but her tone was curious, gentle even. 

“You probably don’t do this a lot,” she suggested. 

“My ex-wife—no, I don’t.”

“Walder, go start closing up.” She turned to Roose. “When is the latest I could get these to you?”

Roose considered. “8:30 A.M. I have meetings. But you said—”

The young woman looked at the clock. “I can stay late and finish these. I’ll have them sent to your hotel tomorrow before 8:30.”

She had such a competent air about her that Roose decided to trust her. “Thank you.”

“I’m Walda.” The faintest tinge of pink flooded her cheeks. She had a complexion for blushing, Roose thought. 

“How do you know I am at a hotel?”

She shrugged. “It was a guess. You don’t fit the profile for the people who come to live here from other parts of the country and I know pretty much all the locals.”

* * *

Walda liked this time of the evening the best. She could look at the totals for the day, tidy up, evaluate what she needed to improve, and most of all she could bask in the glow of an establishment that was _hers_.

For years the Twins had been a decaying city—one with no future—and then suddenly, some famous artists had decided that they liked the atmosphere and within months, the place had been inundated with poets and performance artists and musicians just dying to get a taste of real authentic Riverlands’ culture. 

It seemed silly to her, but Walda had watched as Grandfather had raked in the money. Favorite sons, daughters, and grandchildren got the chance to manage restaurants, oversee properties, run nightclubs even. Walda knew her limitations. No one was going to let her run a nightclub or a bar. She didn’t want to be a property manager. What she wanted was a chance to run her own business. She’d written a proposal, squared her shoulders, and gone to Grandfather and he’d dumped a white elephant on her: a decaying Laundromat in a somewhat sketchy part of the city.

Feeling bitterly disappointed, but trying desperately not to show it, she told him she wanted to buy the place, not just run it. If she was going to be saddled with a mess, it was going to be _her_ mess.

“Are you mad, girl?” But evidently pleased by her candor and her bravery, Grandfather had done her one better. He’d sold it to her for one dragon.

And then Walda had done research, and as she observed the hipsters who were fast becoming one of the biggest consumer groups in the region, she noticed they would drop an astonishing amount of money on the stupidest things. Thus her concept for Sip and Spin was born. If these skinny people who smoked too much and listened to the strangest music wanted to throw money away on coffee and pastries and laundry machines that cost twice as much as most of the other places, who was she to judge? It had been hard work, but finally she was starting to turn a profit.

Walda did feel badly for the regular customers, who probably just wanted to wash their socks and shorts in peace, and who were now subjected to poetry-readings and live music. Just like the nice gentleman whose shirts she was now ironing. She consulted the business card he’d given her. “Roose Bolton,” she read aloud. 

“That was one creepy guy,” Big Walder opined. 

Walda ignored him. Mr. Bolton was thin, but not skinny, and if his forearms were anything to go by (she’d looked when he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt) he was well-built. She had not thought him creepy at all. In fact, she had rather liked the look of him.

“All done,” Big Walder called. 

Walda inspected the floors and the counters and finally pronounced all to her satisfaction. “You can load the truck for the deliveries. I’m almost finished with Mr. Bolton’s clothes.” Very carefully, she packed up his shirts. She gave Big Walder specific instructions about the delivery. She had a feeling he wasn’t paying close attention—he was not the best employee—but until her cash flow improved, she couldn’t afford to hire someone else.

Mr. Bolton was staying at the Towers, which was a very nice hotel that Uncle Stevron ran. “Very posh,” Ami had told her (Ami was quite the expert on the quality of hotel rooms). Walda wondered if Mr. Bolton was staying there by himself. She could call and ask . . . No, she didn’t have to. “Ex-wife,” he’d said.

* * *

Big Walder stood on the threshold of Mr. Bolton’s hotel room door wishing he could be anywhere else.

“Do I look,” Mr. Bolton asked, “like the sort of man who would wear a t-shirt for a metal band?” 

Big Walder stared at the item the man was holding up. “Methylene Blue isn’t a metal band; it’s more shoegaze meets ska, but with a strong klezmer sound.”

“I do not know what any of that means,” Mr. Bolton said in a very soft, but somehow terrifying voice. “And I do not care. This article of clothing does not belong to me. None of these things belong to me.” He moved one step forward. He was almost whispering now. “I have an important meeting in forty-five minutes and I need my laundry back.” He left unsaid just what he would do if he was late to this meeting, but Big Walder was pretty certain he didn’t want to know.

Big Walder swallowed. “The orders must have gotten mixed up.”

“That girl in the pink dress—the one who knows what she’s doing—do you have her number?”

“Walda’s? Sure, but—”

“Call her.”

Big Walder was hesitant to do that, but then Mr. Bolton stared until he did. Before he could even say hi, Mr. Bolton grabbed the phone. 

He sounded pissed as hell, but gradually, his voice softened. “Yes, perhaps that is the case. One moment.” Mr. Bolton handed the phone to him.

“I told you I put his clothes in the front seat. You weren’t listening again.”

He swallowed. 

“Put me back on the phone with Mr. Bolton while you go get them and do not accept a tip if he offers you one.”

Judging from the hard-eyed stare Mr. Bolton was giving him, Big Walder didn’t think that was going to be a problem. 

When he returned, he was startled to find Mr. Bolton still talking to Walda. From the sounds of it, they had moved from missing dress shirts onto chitchat. Big Walder had not known Mr. Bolton very long, but he and chatting seemed to be incompatible. 

Mr. Bolton hung up and inspected the new parcels. The smiling man who had been asking Walda about herself was gone. “Yes, these are mine,” he pronounced coldly.

Big Walder took a step backwards toward freedom.

“The young lady.” Mr. Bolton gestured to the phone. “Does she work any particular shift?”

“She’s there all the time. Why?”

“No reason.”

Big Walder was halfway across town before he realized he’d left the band t-shirt back with Mr. Bolton.

* * *

It was late when Roose darkened the doors of Sip and Spin for the second time, but the establishment was still open.

She was in a yellow-and-white striped dress this time and it suited her nearly as well as the pink one had. Walda looked up at him and a smile blossomed over her face, a dimple forming at each end of her mouth. 

Roose stepped forward and presented her with the Methylene Blue t-shirt. 

The dimples disappeared. “He left that there? I apologize for the inconvenience. I can give you a discount—”

“You are not at fault,” he told her mildly. “And I don’t require a discount.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Kind was not an adjective anyone had ever applied to Roose before. 

“At least let me get you something? A coffee or a hot drink? On the house,” she assured him.

They ended up in the café portion of the Laundromat. Walda had some concoction called a LoTte. 

“You should try one. We named it after this artist named, LoT, who comes here all the time. She was our first regular. Those are her pictures on the walls.”

Roose took in the art. Most of it left him unmoved. An image of two cartoon dogs (Domeric had watched it, although the name escaped Roose) was for sale for an inordinate amount of money. But there was one drawing of microscopic blood cells that was well rendered, if not to his personal taste (anatomical art graced his walls at home). 

“The LoTte has hazelnut and chocolate. It’s very tasty, but I get it extra sweet.”

Roose could feel the onset of Type-2 diabetes just looking at the beverage. He started to answer in the negative, but she seemed so eager. His mouth formed words and he realized to his horror he had offered to try one.

“No, you’d prefer water, I bet,” Walda guessed.

With no little relief, he agreed and was offered a baffling array of options.

“He’d like something simple,” Walda told the server, who turned out to be another cousin. “Just plain bottled water, right?”

Roose nodded. “And would you like something else? A piece of pie, perhaps?” He gestured to the pastry case.

“That’s our rustic strawberry tart with citrus pastry cream,” the server corrected. 

Walda gave the girl a warning look. “The strawberry _pie_ will be fine. No charge,” Walda said very firmly. She turned to Roose. “We could share it?”

“All right.”

It was a surprisingly pleasant evening. Walda was happy enough just to sit there, but he knew women found it odd if he didn’t talk at all. It had been one of Bethany’s many complaints about him. He asked Walda questions and when she finally asked a few of him, he answered honestly and readily.

“This is very good,” he said with surprise during a lull in the conversation. Food was not something he ever paid much attention to, but he registered that this was not some thawed frozen mess.

“Thank you. I made it." And then again quite shyly, she told him how she’d developed the concept for her business. 

Roose was impressed with her acumen. If everything had failed to appeal to him, he only had to look around at the number of apparently satisfied customers to know that he was an outlier. “It must take up a considerable amount of your time, though.”

Walda cut off a tiny piece of pie. She nibbled at things very delicately Roose noticed. She had good teeth too. “I don’t mind. It’s so crowded at home.”

“You have siblings?” he guessed. He wasn’t sure how old she was, but she’d referenced college so he assumed she was in her early twenties.

“And cousins. We’re a very big family.” Walda set her fork down and looked at him. “Sometimes it’s so noisy.”

“At least you’re not lonely,” he commented and then wondered at himself. He was a solitary man by nature and he’d never felt much need for companionship, so why should he express one now?

Walda peeked up at him. “You can be lonely with a big group of people just as easily. I don’t fit in,” she confessed. “Not really. You wouldn’t understand.”

But Roose did and he said as much.

“Do you miss being married?”

“At times,” he admitted. “I was married longer than I’ve been single. I’m not quite used to it.” He told her about Bethany then—how one day she’d simply announced it was over and how he had realized she was right. He left out the part about how Bethany had engineered the divorce with the revelation of documents that would be released to the authorities should she suffer an untimely death. It didn’t matter in any case. The point was that the marriage had been over. He was finding Walda extremely easy to talk to. “Our son was grown and I suppose we drifted apart . . .”

* * *

Walda sorted through the boxes in the backroom.

“Are you certain about this?” her husband asked her for the fifth time. “You could hire someone competent—other than your cousin— to manage the place.”

Walda shook her head. It was better to sell up while she was on top. She had overheard customers raving about the authenticity of Storm’s End. “It’s so _real_ there. The music—the art—” It was only a matter of time before they began wasting their money on over-priced drinks and extras there rather than here. 

Besides once she permanently moved to Harrenhal with Roose, her visits would need to be very infrequent and places like this needed hands-on management. “I am looking forward to having some free time for a while.” She had made lists of the classes she wanted to take and the things she wanted to do. And she would enjoy making a home for Roose. He needed looking after. Once she was settled in her new life with him, Walda would look around for her next business venture. 

“This is the only box you want to keep? There’s so little here.”

Walda looked. It had the important things: the first dragon she’d ever made; the acrylic painting her first regular artist customer had done of her; her records for her taxes; and the shadowbox with the pink-and-white peonies she’d pressed from the first bouquet Roose had ever sent her. “Yes. Those are for the dumpster and those are for charity,” she answered pointing to the various piles. 

Roose picked up one of the boxes for the Silent Sisters and something fell out of it. He set it down and reached for the item. “We should frame this,” he said after a moment.

Walda read aloud from the poster. “Methylene Blue: Embrace the Chemistry: The Westerosi Tour.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The artist, LoT, who inspired the LoTte, refers to my friend, [LadyofTarth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyoftarth/pseuds/Ladyoftarth). Her art is quite amazing and can be seen [here](http://ladyoftarth-posts.tumblr.com/tagged/lotart). She told me she once did a drawing of blood cells . . .
> 
> Vana gets the credit for helping me figure out the band genre. 
> 
> And I apologize to the late Dorothy L. Sayers for riffing on her subtitle structure from "Busman's Honeymoon."
> 
>  


End file.
